


Ayurnamat

by Somnaborium



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Ayuramat, F/M, Hurt, Obscure Word Prompt, Word prompt, angst and hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:46:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11493462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somnaborium/pseuds/Somnaborium
Summary: Ayurnamat (Inuit): a word describing the philosophy that there is no point worrying about events that cannot be changed.





	Ayurnamat

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Dragon Age or the characters.  
> I’m just playing with them for a bit – I’ll put them back, mostly unharmed.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> Come and say hello to me on [Tumblr!](https://somnaborium.tumblr.com/)

In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t really matter.  
  
Another deception, another betrayal and lie brought to light and forced out into the open where it burrowed deep into her heart and mind, scalding her with its poison.  
  
She had gone through the anger stage – the glass decanter in her chambers was proof of that, shards of it scattered over the floor, catching the light from the lanterns and candles and glittering like crystals; red wine splashed over her dressing table, fat droplets hitting the plush cream rugs and staining them like blood.  
  
Denial had been bypassed in favor of bargaining with herself about the decisions she’d made. She could account for the choices to anyone that pressed her for answers (and had done _ad nauseam_ ) but when it was just her, alone in her chambers the weight of it sat upon her shoulders – yes the person sitting awaiting probable death was by no means innocent; a traitor within the Inquisition was a serious matter indeed, but was that her right to decide? She was the Herald of Andraste, sure, but did that give her the right to play Maker with lives?  
  
Depression had followed and settled in with a heavy familiarity.  
  
At War Council meetings she was unfocused and non-committal, she snapped at passing comments that usually would have had her chuckling or replying with something witty.  
She became quiet, withdrawn and restless; eyes dull instead of their usual sparkling aquamarine and plump, full lips bitten and chapped from constant worrying.  
  
Numbness edged its way in and she could steel herself with it, hardening herself to her own emotions; a shell kept tight around her, impenetrable and wholly impossible to see through.  
At night, rather than sleeping, she became a wanderer – walking the battlements of Skyhold like a wraith; pale and ethereal with slender arms wrapped around her body as though she could hold the cracks forming over her together by pressing in on herself.  
  
What came next was acceptance – cold and hard, a chill that began low in her gut and seethed through her veins, an icy touch curling around her heart.  
It became something she could find a strange sort of rest within, an uneasy truce she made with herself; almost doubling back to bargaining but not quite because she wasn’t going back there, not again – _never again_ – but a truce nonetheless.  
  
She had found that she could finally deal with the situation in a slightly removed fashion – it had happened, it was dealt with and it was over; even if there were still whispers and sidelong glances from people that otherwise smiled and acted friendly towards her.  
  
She huffed out a brittle laugh at that – friendly, indeed, if the word could be use to describe the nobles and commoners alike that had gathered within the great hall of the keep.  
  
Vipers and sycophants the lot of them, she thought bitterly and wondered if she had always thought that or if their reaction to her choice had formed her opinion.  
  
She stared out of the balcony doors to the sun as it began to rise over the mountains, a pale golden-orange disc streaming weak rays over the snowy peaks of the Frostbacks; casting thin wintry light into her chambers.  
  
Turning, she glanced at her bed and regarded the broad-shouldered man lying curled up under soft blankets with a nervous smile quirking his lips and love in his eyes.  
  
His hand stretched out; calloused, strong fingers beckoning uncertainly as if he wasn’t completely sure she would go to him, relief writ large on his face when her lips curled upwards in a sensual smile that made his heart stop and desire coil low in his belly.  
  
“My lady…” His voice gruff and sleep-fogged, tentative and uncertain as her chemise pooled at her feet and she slid under the blankets to curl against him; hands touching and searching – hers for the acceptance she only found as she arched under the solid weight of him and his for the absolution he could only find in her breathlessly whispering his name as the dawn broke.  
  
_Yes_ , she thought, _in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter. It can’t be changed anyway_.


End file.
